Page 15 of Besieger
Dulior opened her mouth to speak, thankful that, from the gore, he could not tell that her tears were blood as well. Men and women began rushing up the stairs, someone was yelling over the sound of glass shattering.
“Fire…” she rasped, determined not to cloud his mind—not yet!Let him first see me for who I am.Not as the woman Rorgonfashioned for others but as herself. “My master’s room… there has been a fire.”
“Good,” he said.
DULIOR, 1096
The damage from the fire was repairable, the flames had taken Rorgon’s room and the one next to it but they had not spread to the roof and lower floors. Gustave dismissed the servants, paid them handsomely, nodding gravely as they confirmed the details he already knew: yes, Rorgon had gone to bed drunk that night; yes, he was known to examine trinkets and tapestries by candlelight—a candle had fallen and ignited some letters; he had suffocated from the smoke in his sleep. What a silly avoidable death for someone so young and experienced as the Countess’ guardian. The house was to be rebuilt, of course, but they could not remain there a day longer, the loss was too devastating for the Countess.
The Count found a new house for her, a bigger one, with a garden that she could tend to, hidden from prying eyes, one as far away from the pyre of their past, and with a household staff that knew little of them beyond their need for privacy at odd hours.
In the months that followed, Dulior struggled to find her ground, to understand who Dulior di Flaviari was without the ever-present shadow of her master. A widow no more but an orphan—a role she was painfully aware of under the watchful eyes of Gustave. He never questioned her about that night, and Dulior never dared to trespass into his thoughts. She did not want to see herself through his eyes—as he must have seen her—standing splattered with blood and soot, the smoke building behind her like the gates of Hell.
She locked her mind for all his thoughts, and their days were spent in blissful silence.
One early autumn evening, Dulior made her way along the south bank of the Seine. Walking close to the shadows of buildings, she observed strangers pass by, talking quietly to each other. Her light eyes drifted through the trees and bushes, marvelling at the colourful dance of green melting into red, turning slowly to gold until the branch withered and the leaves fell, raining down the cobblestones. They crunched loudly under her feet, accompanying her late walk.
Oh, how she longed to see the park in the light of day. She could not appreciate the garden that the gardener maintained for her at home. Each sunset she would pull the curtains aside and scrutinize the bushes he had trimmed in ridiculous oval shapes. Fresh bouquets of roses, irises, and carnations filled vases around the house. Their aroma clung to her clothes and hair, masking any stench that would linger after her hunt.
Sated and weary, Dulior decided to make a wide berth around Saint-Germain-des-Prés before returning home. It had been decades since she last saw the abbey and was curious to see if its former glory had withstood the passage of time and plundering.
Getting closer, the first thing she noticed was the church tower, the small cross at the top, beckoning. She imagined climbing to the top, her fingers digging into the stone, searching for cracks to pull herself upward. There were no ornaments or sculptures, no gargoyles or angels, gazing down upon the masses, weeping. The tower was smooth stone, rising into the heavens. Perhaps one day she was going to bury the remains of her husband in the bushes and flower beds around the structure,and when she looked down from the top, she would see the grave blooming in the moonlight.
A delicate smile curled her lips at the thought, and she was almost tempted to try and ascend the stones now, when a door closed with a bang behind her. In the dim light of the moon two figures came out of the church, staggering, their voices disrupting the night. One of the men was trying to free himself of the robe he was wearing, while the other man tried to pull at the cloth, pleading with his companion. The sound of their mirth drew her in, laughter and words in a lilting tune she did not understand at first.
“…and what was thatthingyou asked that poor man to find and bring to the church?”
The words were starting to take shape, the Latin spoken too fast, ringing and spilling all around her.
“A hedgehog,” the man managed to get his arms and head free from the cloth. He threw it over his shoulder, ruffling his hair with a quick swipe of the hand. When he spoke, his words harmonized beautifully with those of his companion. They complemented each other so well, like singers.
“That ball… with the…” the man searched for the right word, pulling his companion close, as if conspiring. “With the quilts! You have seen it, I’ve shown it to you in the Scriptures.”
“There are also beasts with scales and dozens of heads in those pages. That does not mean it is all real.”
“Ah, that is a problem for poor sir Chevalier. And besides, what happens in the confessional is sacrosanct—I cannot discuss it with you further.”
The man, probably a priest, shrugged and took out a coin purse, dangling it.
“Let’s go get some wine.”
Dulior could taste the wanton mischief in that voice. She had never heard a man of the cloth speak like that, and it amused her. However, it was the other man who drew her attention, the one who was trying to talk some sense into the priest.
“Did you… did you steal from the altar giftsagain?”
“That is why they are gifts, Silvio. Why collect the coin if it is not meant to be spent?”
Silvio pressed a hand to his face, cursing under his breath. The other man went ahead without him, walking towards the promise of fulfilment under the patronage of the Church. Dulior pressed closer to the wall, pulling the shadows around her and crept nearer. Delicately—almost shyly—she reached out and unveiled Silvio’s thoughts.
This was not the first time his friend had committed such a sacrilege, and many a church in the neighbourhood had suffered from this spoiled jester. He was no priest but a young noble meant to learn the Scriptures, who instead wasted his days testing the patience of the clergy. Silvio was charged with keeping him in check—and so far failing miserably. In Silvio’s mind, Dulior saw them waking drunk in various states of undress and unrest in taverns. Or barns and stables when the coin ran out and the tavern-keeper lost patience.
Silvio was young, around the same age as Dulior before she was turned, back when Paris knew only fires and rivers running thick with carnage. His dark brown hair reached to his collar, falling in loose waves over his forehead; fatigue marked his face marring his features. And Dulior noticed how when he frowned, the side of his mouth curled up and the bridge of his nose wrinkled. He had a strong jaw and full lips she was sure were soft and would taste of honeydew, right before she sank her fangs into them and they burst in red salt.
She wanted to see his eyes, to step into the faint light and brush his hair back, uncovering the whole of his face. They would almost stand at eye level, Dulior observed, feeling a giddy thrill by the thought of having a man meeting her gaze directly, rather than looking down at her. Her master and husbands had always been taller than her, older, ill-favoured.
“Silvio!” a voice called from the darkness. It was the other man, the blasphemous youth. “Silvio, hurry! By the time we get there Segal will close the tavern!”
“Do a little jig!” Silvio called out, and continued to walk with the same pace, if not slower. “Once he hears the coins jingle, he will throw the door wide open for you!”
